


odes to the entities

by Phoenixgriffin260



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Homoeroticism, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27885538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixgriffin260/pseuds/Phoenixgriffin260
Summary: Extremely short poetic sentences that remind me of the entities.
Relationships: various
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	odes to the entities

CORRUPTION

He is diseased; sickly, ill- his hair is greased like the glittering wings of flies, and his skin carries holes like torn fishnet, and yet he is beautiful all the same, like a half-remembered fever dream. 

Water stings the edges of his eyes, prickling down his throat; ants march, one by one, two by two, and yet still he clutches to his beauty, crushed between his too-thin fingers like bedsheets, stretched between his limbs like broken elastic, trailed down his spine like a beetle carapace. 

The boy sticks to the shadows, as if they were his home, as if he wished to flatten himself, silverfish in more ways than one, and slip himself through the cracks; into a new reality, a reality where the moth-wings and danger-tape between his teeth were an oddity, not ladybug spots painted in rashes and hickies. 

Words mean nothing to boys who speak in pheromones, to insects kissing in the dirt, to the oily tangle of limbs he left on a warm afternoon, to the buzz of the hive in the walls of his old house, to boys who kiss and leave goosebumps filled with curdled love. 

Actions mean everything to the boy who sits in the back of his class and stares at the aphids on the wall, to the mold on his sink, to the way dandelion clocks stick in his hair as if they wanted to bloom there, plant themselves in his skin and be just as beautiful as the way he holds himself, the way he curls up like pillbugs. 

Perhaps rot is beautiful, he tells himself, and picks at those freckles in his bones. Perhaps rot is beautiful, they say, and stare at the way their skin writhes after meeting him. 


End file.
